


Changes

by scarletjedi



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canonical Character Death, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, gigolas week entries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-02-21
Packaged: 2018-01-12 15:39:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1190535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarletjedi/pseuds/scarletjedi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Day 1: First Times<br/>Day 2: Helms Deep<br/>Day 3: Fangorn/The Glittering Caves<br/>Day 4: Meeting the Family<br/>Day 5: The Grey Havens<br/>Day 6: Hair Braiding<br/>Day 7: AU</p><p>This story follows these prompts to tell the tale of Legolas and Gimli from the end of one age into the next.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Times

**Author's Note:**

> unbetad. Will update once a day as I post to the bang on tumblr. Follow here at gigolasweek.tumblr.com!

The first time Gimli saw Legolas, Gimli was standing on the one balcony in Rivendell where he could see over the railing without straining, idly smoking his pipe. Horns sounded and Gimli leaned a little closer to see what was going on; it was still early in the day, and the bright sun made it hard for him to see clearly. A trio of Mirkwood Elves galloped in on horseback, dressed in the dappled green of the forest, as was their custom. The leader jumped down, light as a leaf on the wind, and Gimli blew a thoughtful ring of smoke. There was something wild about these Elves against the refined grace of Imladris, and Gimli thought their leader was well aware of it, though he couldn’t say what had caused that impression in him. 

He felt the footsteps before he head them, as familiar as his own heartbeat, and Gloin joined his son where he stood. “Hmm,” Gloin said, looking down at the Elves. “So. Thranduil send his son, did he? It’s not like the Old Spider to reach beyond his boarders; this darkness must be spreading faster than we thought.” 

Gimli raised his eyesbrows and looked again. “That’s the prince?” He asked. “The same that threw you and The Company to the dungeons?” Gimli had heard the take a thousand times—it was one of Gloin’s favorites when he had some drink in him, and Bofur was fond of telling of their escape in the barrels. 

Gloin scowled. “Aye, that’s him. Not as cold as his father—has quite the temper, actually—but he is every bit as arrogant.” He pulled his own pipe from his pocket and Gimli struck the flint for him. He breathed deeply with a contented sigh, and Gimli breathed the sweeter notes of Hobbitish pipeweed; Gloin must have come from Bilbo’s quarters. Together, they watched Lindir come and collect the prince and his companions, and Gloin frowned. “That one never strays far from his Father’s side. That it is he who has come and not some messenger is ominous,” he hummed. “Very ominous indeed. I wonder…”

Relations between The Wood and The Mountain were…stable, since Five Armies, if not happy—not in the least because of the grudge still held by most of the remaining members of Thorin’s Company against their former captor. It had the side effect of making gossip from the Elvenking’s Court all the more desirable. Gimli hummed, and wondered if this was a symptom of ill-favor between the king and his son, or of pride. 

Raising his eyebrows, Gloin considered his son for a long moment. “Gimli, lad,” he said, then broke off, as if unsure how to continue. At last, he sighed, old and weary. “I have seen the dangers of choosing old grudges over common sense, and if I choose to ignore my own advice, that’s one thing. But listen to me, and listen good. The Elves of Mirkwood are our closest allies, as close as the Men of Dale—and we will treat them as such. Allies of Dwarves are few enough and far between; we do not treat them as we have been treated.” Gloin tilted his head and waited for Gimli to meet his eyes. “Do ye ken?” 

“Aye,” Gimli said, and smiled at his father. “I ken.” 

Gimli would start nothing with the poncy prince. In fact, he would do his best to stay out of the Elf’s way; he couldn’t cause offense if he wasn’t seen. But, if the Elf started it, then Gimli would be certain to finish it. Yes, he’d keep an eye on that elf. 

*

_“I will take it! I will take it! I will take the ring to Mordor…though, I do not know the way.”  
“You have my sword.”  
“And my bow.”  
“And my axe.” _

*

The first time Legolas saw Gimli was decades before Elrond’s Council, in the Time of Spiders before Five Armies, when an exiled king wandered into his father’s kingdom and Legolas came face to face with a Dwarven locket and the picture inside. 

“Goblin Mutant,” he had said, then. 

Oh, how foolish he had been.

Through the tumult of their first meeting and the beginnings of respect that began to grow behind the bickering, beyond the signs that gave light to ancient lies and the heavy grief of Moria’s depths, all the way to The Golden Wood, GImli was a constant surprise of heart and nobility, poetry and song. When Legolas truly look at him with clear eyes in the twilight of their travels through Lorien and saw not the shadow of their pasts, he saw _Gimli_ for the first time, and he liked what he saw.


	2. Day 2: Helm's Deep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At night on the wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short one today. they get longer later.

Day 2: Helm’s Deep 

 

The eve of battle was upon them, and Legolas was fearful. Gimli, grown so dear to him so quickly, lay asleep, his head upon Legolas’s lap. Gimli had been hesitant at first, to lay his head such as Legolas offered, had gained color in his cheeks to match his hair, but Legolas held firm in his offer, and after short deliberation, Gimli accepted, and doffing his helm, lay down his head. 

Now, Legolas sat with his back to the bulwark, Gimli’s hair coiled like a serpent across his lap. Legolas ached to touch it; would he feel the vibrant color with his fingers? He had seen Gimli struggle with it’s almost curl—would it be coarse to the touch? Dry? Even under helm for days, it still smelled vaguely of earth and oil. Strands had pulled free around Gimli’s face, and Legolas—oh, so gently—smoothed them back, tucked them behind a low-sling ear, untangled them from the hidden cuffs of silver, all the while waiting for that serpent to strike. 

Below them, the Men of Edoras prepared for siege; old men jockeyed for weapons with young boys—the women retreating to the caves with the littlest and the sick. It was a desperate ploy, for a desperate hope. 

The sky was dark as a new moon, and its gloom was reflected in the torch-lit faces of the men, and in the eyes of Legolas. He closed them, and hoped for a brighter blackness. 

In his lap, Gimli shifted, and let loose with a mighty snore. Legolas found himself smiling fondly down him; the Dwarf’s snoring was enough to rattle bone, like the purring of a large mountain cat or the rumbling of a bear. Tonight, his irreverent slumber warmed Legolas’s heart. Truly, things could not be so dark if Gimli slept so soundly. 

Legolas never thought that he might miss the sound of Gimli’s snores. The first night of their quest he had been startled, disgusted, and then fearful that the sound would draw unwanted attention. He was skittish until Aragorn had pulled him aside, reminded him that Gimli snored no louder than Gandalf, and if Legolas was going to be critical of their Dwarf, then he would have to be critical of their Wizard, too. Legolas had balked, and the fear had passed, even if the disgust had remained. 

It had been a comfort in Lorien, too. After the horror of the mines, the loss of Gandalf to the fires of the Balrog of Morgoth, Gimli’s snores had been a welcome reminder of his vitality. Gimli was _alive_ , they were _alive_ , and while they lived, hope remained. 

Legolas grinned to himself, helplessly. As long as Gimli snored, hope remained. 

Gently, Legolas rested his hand on Gimli’s chest, feeling its rise and fall, his palm vibrating. Hope restored, Legolas closed his eyes, his mind’s vision on a more earthly star, and raised his voice in a tremulous song of hope. 

*

Gimli slept. Gimli dreamed the warm dark dreams of the dwarves. He dreamed of earth and stone and gem. He dreamed of a cavern of crystal and a song that echoed through his heart.


	3. Day 3: Glittering Caves/Fangorn Forest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Glittering Caves and Fangorn Forest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I...don't know Sindarin. There is some in this that's marked by italics and written in English. If anyone wishes to translate for me, I'll add it in and give proper credit. :)

_Truly, I have never experienced such splendor, such a dazzling display as that which lies deep beneath Helm’s Deep; that such a place of darkness could lie above such caverns of beauty…The Glittering Caves. Ah, Gimli. My friend, my love, you speak with such poetry, prettier than my clumsy tongue. I let your words speak for me, my dearest, my star, and am content to bask in the glow of your joy._

_I love you ever more, though each passing day I despair that my love will not be returned. It is no matter; if I shed a tear here, in these caves of glory, it is because I am moved by your words. So, denied a deeper passion, will remain your friend evermore._

*

Something was bothering Legolas. It had been bothering the elf in fits and starts since the black night of Helm’s Deep, and it had grown only worse since Legolas had heard the white-gulls call. 

The fear the Gimli had felt in that moment of Legolas’s confession of his desire to sail had rocked him to the core, and he had found himself pressed to speak, nearly begging Legolas to reconsider, and underneith it all the plaintive cry: Do not leave me!

And Legolas had heard it, he must have, for his face had turned to Gimli’s in wonder, and affection had replaced the glassy longing for far off shores in Legolas’s eyes. 

“Aye,” he had said, quietly and for Gimli’s ears alone, “for the love I bear my friends, and the great works that we may yet bring to pass.” 

Gimli had caught Legolas’s eye, then, and if his eyes did not deceive him, he saw a passion to match his own. Alas, for it was concealed as quickly as it was shown, though Gimli was certain that, if they had not been in the company of their friends so recently wounded in battle, that it would take little to bring that spark back to the light. 

And yet…

Yet, here they were, walking the ancient deer-paths through Fangorn, having had several days worth of intimate moments, and still Gimli had not seen that passion again. He had thought, in the caves…but Legolas had been so quiet, it had not seemed right. 

At present they walked nearly abreast, Arod trailing as ever behind them. The trail was wider, here, and Legolas seemed content to drift through the trees to keep apace with Gimli. His eye was cast ever upward into the verdant, and the sun played dappled across his face, giving both the illusion of serenity and laughter. 

Sweet Merciful Mahal, Gimli was smitten. 

A bird gave song in the distance and Legolas lit with sudden delight. He turned to Gimli, saying, “Come, dear Gimli, the robin calls for…” He stopped, his words trailing silent as he watched Gimli’s face with growing wonder. Gimli’s eyes widened, for he realized, too late, that his face had betrayed his heart’s secrets. 

Gimli settled his stance, pressing firmly into the soft loam beneath his boots. So be it. He was done tired of the longing. Either this would bring that spark back to Legolas’s eye, or Gimli would be returning to Erebor, and his waiting family, alone. Either way, he would have told the truth, and his heart would be all the lighter for it. 

When several moments passed, and Legolas had not moved, had not shifted an inch from his awed stare, Gimli cleared his throat. “Legolas? Lad?” 

Legolas’s face broke into a grin, that his eyes sparking like Gimli’s own tinderbox, and he grabbed tight hold of Gimli’s shoulders. “Gimli, Meleth Oh, Meleth, meleth… _the same fire burns in your heart! Oh, I had hoped, but never dreamed_ He sank to his knees, then, and all but fell onto Gimli. Gimli caught him, wrapping him up tight in his arms, placing one broad hand on the back of Legolas’s dark head as Legolas pressed the side of his face to Gimli’s.

“I understood not a word of that,” Gimli rumbled, but when Legolas pulled back, eyes wide and damp and full, Gimli’s hand cupped the side of his face, and his thumb wiped away a tear. “But I do so understand that tone. I love you, too, you daft creature. And I’ve been half out of my mind with wondering.” He pulled Legolas to him once again and pressed their foreheads together. “But there is no need for worry or doubt anymore. I love you, and you love me, and with the two of us together, nothing can stand in our way.” 

“Yes,” Legolas breathed. “Oh, yes, Gimli.” He darted forward, quick like only an elf can be, and stole a kiss. “Yes.” 

Gimli grinned, and pulled Legolas in again, stealing a kiss of his own—one that lingered in sweetness and promise. 

“I feel as if we have wasted so much time,” Legolas admitted into the quite space between their bodies. 

“There is more ahead yet than behind,” Gimli murmured. “And I would not rush this for the world. Tarry with me. There is time, yet.” 

Legolas nodded, and stood reluctantly, though he still clung to Gimli’s hand. “There is a clearing ahead,” he said. “And a stream. The robin said it is a good place to relax.” 

Gimli nodded. “Aye, the robin said,” he teased as they walked towards the stream, and laughed when Legolas gave in to childish impulse and stuck his tongue out at him. “Watch where you point that thing,” Gimli laughed. “Or you’ll be expected to use it.” 

They broke through the tree line then, and sure enough, there was a dappled glade with a babbling stream, and even Gimli could see that the moss was most soft, and the water clear and cool. 

“Oh,” Legolas said, dark and heavy with a late August heat. “I intend to.” The spark in his eyes had lit to a flame, and Gimli shivered, his own eyes flashing in the shade of the trees. Legolas kissed him, again, and his promise had turned wild, a blistering lust that lit Gimli ablaze. He grabbed Legolas and twisted, knocking the elf off his feet, and Legolas stared up at Gimli in mild shock. 

“I would have you here,” Gimli said, his voice as deep as the Mountains themselves and Legolas gasped as something wild rippled through him. “Where any could happen by, and I would be only proud in my love for you.” 

“And I would give myself to you here,” Legolas said, “And let any who wander past stand in amaze at the depth my love for you.” 

Gimli growled, and crushed their mouths together, Legolas pressing up into him, rolling himself along Gimli until Gimli pulled back with a gasp. “The stream,” Gimli said. 

“What about it?” Legolas asked absently impatient as he nibbled at Gimli’s ear, drawing the silver cuff into his mouth and laving with his tongue. 

Gimli grunted, but composed himself to speak. “I would not have our first union caked with road dust. Let us wash and meet each other thus, as befitting a wedding bed. 

Legolas pulled back, looking at Gimli with some surprise, and Gimli smiled at him, smoothing his hair from his face with his hand. “Aye, I know,” Gimli said. “To bed an elf is to wed said elf, to be their only love in their endless lives. I had an—interesting discussion with Aragron before we left Minas Tirith.” Legolas couldn’t help but laugh at that; he could only imagine their normally stoic friend’s face upon having to discuss said matters. 

“Legolas,” Gimli began, seriously. “Many may know of the wedding practices of elves, but few know of the practices of Dwarves. We have many small loves in our lives: family, friends. Some even take lovers in their wild youth. But there is one love that is greater than even a Dwarrow’s love of craft; their One love—mithril pure and twice as strong. A Dwarrow who finds their One will love no other, until death and beyond.” 

“Gimli,” Legolas breathed, and Gimli nodded. 

“I have found my One in you, Legolas Greenleaf. And I will love you until Arda is remade and beyond.” 

Legolas surged up, tangling his hands in Gimli’s hair and covering his face with kisses. “I love you,” Legolas said. “Until the end of my life and beyond. Then let us wash,” he said. “So that our bond may be forged strong as Dwarven steel.” 

“Aye,” Gimli said, “and as timeless as Elven song.” 

So wash they did, taking more than their time to strip, seeing each other with the newness of lover’s eyes. They came together first in the water, skin sliding wetly against skin as they lost themselves to their love. They met next on the earth as the sun set, and the moss proved as soft as it looked as Gimli lay back against it, Legolas tall and proud above him as he moved in the golden light of the glen. He shined, more faceted than any cut gem, and Gimli watched in aw as Legolas came undone against the canopy of leaves. They met last in the air, open and exposed to the night as a Dwarven shout echoed beneath an Elvish cry, and the stars themselves rejoiced in their love. 

At last, damp skin pressed to damp skin, Legolas curled against Gimli, stroking his fingers through his beard. Gimli smoked his pipe out of the side of his mouth, enjoying the last of the Hobbitish weed. 

“There is still ceremony,” Legolas said, quietly. “Traditionally.” 

“Aye,” Gimli said. “For Dwarves as well. Chants and vows and special beads and braids. For Elves?”

Legolas propped himself up on an elbow. “There are vows as well, and much singing,” he said. “And flowers. And wine.” 

“Wine, hmm?” Gimli said. “I like the sound of that. When we wed formally, there will be wine and flowers and I’ll twist marriage braids into your hair and we’ll roast a whole pig. Five pigs, if the Hobbits are in attendance.” 

Legolas smiled down at Gimli. “Agreed,” he said, and settled down against Gimli’s chest, listening to his heart beat a steady tattoo, and dreamed of their wedding where he would twine flowers into Gimli’s hair, and Gimli would braid Legolas’s for the world to see.


	4. Day 4: Meeting the Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> friends are family when you're part of The Company

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> longest chapter so far!

Their path home from the quest would bring them first to the city of Dale, and it had been long ago decided that they would travel together to that city of man, then each turn towards their home to rest, visit their families, and prepare for their return to Minas Tirith, and then to their new colonies beyond. Neither knew exactly how long their preparations would take, and neither looked forward to their period of separation even before their union in Fangorn. Now, recently bound together as they were, the idea of months or years without the other was a heavy burden on both of their minds, and they approached the city at a dawdling pace. 

At length, they could delay no further, and Legolas steered Arod into the city proper. It was near dusk, and the streets were busy with Men at the end of their day. 

“Shall we find an inn?” Legolas asked. “I fear I have no heart to go further today.” 

“Aye, an inn is agreeable,” Gimli said. “I find I miss washing with hot water, and and more than ready for someone else to do the evening’s cooking.” 

Legolas laughed. “My cooking is not that bad, Meleth-nin.” 

“Hmm,” Gimli grunted. “No, tis not,” he said. “Though I missed good Dwarven cooking. The spices, givashel, cinnamon and ginger and sharp pepper, enough to make your mouth water!” He breathed in deeply. “Like that! Oh, there is a Dwarvish roast nearby, make no mistake.” 

“We are coming up to market,” Legolas said. “Mayhaps there is still a treat you can purchase?” 

“I live in hope,” Gimli said. “Though how you expect me to see anything from this height is beyond me.” 

Arod snorted, and Legolas grinned over his shoulder. “Arod knows you speak in half-truths, My Heart. You have grown fond of him, even as he has grown used to the weight of your armor. But I agree, a market is too busy a place for a horse. Let us find an inn and a stable and make our way on foot.” 

It was a simple matter, finding an Inn. Many of the Inns near the market bore the Hammer of the Dwarves, the sign that their facilities were up to Dwarven standards. It was an easy enough matter to find one that also bore an Oak leaf for the occasional Elvish guest. 

The stableboy, however, upon seeing both an Elf and a Dwarf on the same horse, nearly fell off of his stool, though he recovered quickly enough and attended Arod with kind care. 

Once inside, the innkeeper reacted with much greater composure, though even he was momentarily thrown when he learned they wished to share a room. Still, he was a credit to his trade, and offered them a room in the back, equally distant from the fenced in outdoor Elvish bath, and the Dwarven steam room in the basement. He explained apologetically that the room had only one bed, but Gimli assured him it was no trouble, and Legolas simply smiled with that enigmatic elvish smile that, at least on Legolas, Gimli had learned meant that he was laughing at you, but too polite to show it. 

The Elven bath was more of a shower, but Legolas enjoyed himself anyhow, humming to himself and occasional singing out a snippet of song as he washed. Gimli would say nothing about the state of the steamroom, but he returned more relaxed than he had been, with his hair smoothly oiled and braided. They dressed in their spare clothing, though for both it was tighter around the chest and shoulders and looser around the middle, a testament to their year and a half of near-constant battle. Their gear remained locked in their room, though Legolas wore one of his bone-knives in his belt and Gimli had a few blades hidden upon his person, and they set out for the Market. 

The Markets of Dale were once again a wonder of the North. Unlike most markets that were a morning affair, the Markets of Dale were open late into the night. The streets were lined with Dwarven Fire-stone, globes of light that danced in the darkness like giant fireflies and lit the way. Each stall was equally lit with lanterns, and the effect was rather like stepping back into daylight. 

Most taverns along the Market had an ingeniously crafted wall that allowed them to open a window-counter to the thoroughfare at dusk, and the smell of cooking meat and ale wafted though the air with the cries of the marketers. All in all, it had the air of a festival, and Legolas and Gimli entered with eager smiles. 

Many of the Market stalls were operated by Men, but most were Dwarven, and they called to Gimli as he passed, recognizing him as a Dwarf of Erebor, if not for his person. Gimli responded with laughter and waves, bringing Legolas along to exclaim of their wares. Legolas bought a broach he thought that Arwen would appreciate when they returned to Minas Tirith, and Gimli bought a clever toy. At Legolas’s look, Gimli shrugged. “They’ve been married for months already. If they don’t have at least one bairn by the time we return, I’ll eat my helm.” Legolas had laughed, and purchased a toy himself, for the same purpose. 

They made it halfway through the market before they were recognized. 

“Mahal’s blessed stones,” came the cry. “Gimli, is that you?” 

Gimli turned from where he had been inspecting some gold wire, contemplating if it would compliment or contrast with the Lady’s gift, and broke into a grin. “Bofur, you old scoundrel!” He laughed, and embraces his old friend. In the aftermath of Five Armies, the remaining members of Thorin’s Company had remained close, and when Gimli had come with his mother and sister from the Blue Mountains, Bofur and Bombur had became fast family friends. 

“By my beard, it does my eyes good to see you,” Bofur pulled away and looked at Gimli. “I almost didn’t recognize you; I certainly didn’t expect you.” He paused. “Why are you here and not at the Mountain?” 

“We came to Dale late in the day,” Gimli said. “And wished to visit the market before continuing home.” 

“We?” Bofur blinked at him, then looked over Gimli’s shoulder. His face contorted in ways Gimli had hardly thought possible, before finally settling on shock. “Prince Legolas?” He asked, and something went flat in his eyes. “Your highness.” 

Gimli frowned at Bofur, and looked back at Legolas. His love’s face was blank, and in such blankness he looked much like his father, but there was pain in his eyes that he could not hide from Gimli. 

“Master Bofur,” Legolas said, and his voice matched the mask of his face. He inclined his head in a perfectly respectful bow. 

Bofur turned back to Gimli. “What are you doing with him?” Then, lower, but not low enough for Legolas to not overhear: “You know what he did to us? To Thorin?” 

Legolas stiffened, the pain causing the mask around his eyes to crack, and Gimli answered evenly. “Aye, I know what he did back then, as I know what Thorin did, and what his father did, and what the company did. I know my histories, Bofur, and I’ve certainly heard enough of it from my father. But I also know that clinging to the past is no way to live in the future; it is the nature of all things to change and grow, and Elves are no different. He’s more than proven himself as a friend to Dwarves, and more, to me!” The last was punctuated by a growl, and Bofur looked a bit taken aback. 

“Alright,” he said, raising his hands and his eyebrows. “I stand corrected. No need for a ruckus. Why don’t you come on to Bombur’s stall. We’ll share some ale and some of his meatpies, and you can tell us all about it.” He paused, but nodded at Legoas. “Both of you.” 

“If you think—“ GImli started, heated, but Legolas placed a hand on his shoulder. 

“We thank you for your offer,” he said. “I know Gimli has missed his home, and would welcome a chance to enjoy some familiar cooking.” 

Gimli folded his arms. “Are there any spicecakes? I promised Legolas I’d show him some true Dwarvish spicecake.” He slanted a grin at Legolas, but it was a bit strained. “Spicy enough to make even your hair curl.” 

Legolas raised an eyebrow at him, and the mask softened. “For you, meleth, I will rise to the challenge, though I scarce hope it could ever be as curled as yours.” 

Bofur’s eyebrows were practically lost in his hair, but he led the way through the market to Bombur’s stall. Legolas remained tense as he walked with Gimli, but he did continue to walk with Gimli. They passed a few more Dwarves who recognized Bofur, and bowed respectfully to them, and once a Dwarrowdam gasped in recognition and a flurry of whispers ran down the street. The Men mostly ignored them, but they did grin when they saw Bofur, and a few waved happily. Bofur did always have a way with people. 

Bombur’s stall was one of the biggest in the market, and was more of an open-air tavern than a street food stand. The day to day work was done mostly by his sons; they baked and stewed and chopped and sauted, they waited and bussed the tables, collected the money and took orders. Grown too large to move on his own, Bombur held court from beside the front entrance, calling out his greetings and chatting with the passers by. He had gained several regulars simply by his charming good humor. 

Bombur greeted his brother with a waved piece of half-eaten sausage, the rest of his dinner on a plate balanced on his stomach. His eyes widened when he saw Gimli, and his mouth dropped open. 

“Gimli?” He asked around a mouthful of sausage. He shook himself and stuffed the rest of his sausage into his mouth, swallowing it all down with a hearty swig of ale. “Gimli!” he called. “Praise the Maker, you’re home safe!” 

“Bombur,” Gimli greated, and clasped arms with him, tapping their foreheads together gently. “I couldn’t say away from your pies forever.” 

“Then pies you will have!” Bombur declared, and clapped his hands. 

Bofur pushed his hat back on his head with a finger. “And spicecake for the prince.” 

“Prince?” Bombur asked, then seemed to notice Legolas. His mouth formed a perfect “o” as Legolas bowed to him in greeting. 

“I have heard wonderful stories of your spicecake, Master Bombur,” Legolas said. “There were many nights on our quest that Gimli spoke most longingly of your food.”

Gimli snorted. “When all you have is waybread, and Elvish waybread a that, a good spicecake is like finding a diamond in an ore mine.”

Legolas grinned, and if anything Bombur looked even more befuddled. Two of his sons, the twins just come into their beards, appeared, and Bombur waved at them. 

“My sons, Bimbur and Bomfur. Lads, bring me to the back, and lay out a sampling spread. We have important and long-missed guests.” 

“Gimli!” Bimbur cried happily, and Bomfur grinned. 

“When did you get back!”

“Just now,” he said, but Bombur cut them off with a loud tutting. 

“To the back, to the back! Can’t you see? He’s half the size he was when he left, and Mahal knows the Elf is too thin by measures.” 

The twins rolled their eyes, but they lifed Bombur’s sedan chair with ease and carried him through the shop into the back room. Gimli followed, then Legolas, and Bofur went last, all smiles and charm, deflecting the inquisitive stares that followed them. 

The back room was very obviously the kitchen, and most of it was occupied by fireplace; several fireplaces lined the walls, some with rigging for stovetops and others for roasting, and there were three ovens along the back. Next to the ovens was a big black box, and when Bombur noticed Legolas’s inquisitive look, he told him; 

“That’s the smoker. I smoke all my own meat. Secret recipe, but worth it for the repeat customers.” The twins placed Bombur at the head of a mid-sized table, and went about setting out meat pies and sausages, roast beef and glazed mutton. There were several dishes of Bombur’s own making, green beans with bacon and creamy potatoes, that were inspired by the unexpected party in Bilbo’s Hobbit hole. Gimli pulled Legolas down to sit on the bench next to him, keeping himself between Bombur and the Elf. Just as the twins placed the last dish, Bofur entered with round of ale. 

“Here we are,” he said, and passed the tankards around. “Some diplomatic immunity,” he raised is own tankard in a mock-toast. “What is said around his table will not affect the affairs of state.” 

Gimli grabbed his tankard. “I’ll drink to that.” 

“And I,” Legolas said, picking up his own. He paused with it nearly to his mouth, and sniffed the brew. 

Bombur nodded at him. “Something wrong?” 

Legolas shook his head. “This…is this Dorwinion wine?”

“Aye,” Bofur said, and grinned. “Problem?” 

“No,” Legolas shook his head quickly. “None at all,” And he drank deeply. He lowered the tankard with the shuddering sigh, licking traces of wine from his lips. At Gimli’s look, he smiled like a contented cat. Gimli snorted, shaking his head, and pushed a plate of red sausage towards Legolas. 

“Start with these,” he said. “They’re spicy.” 

Legolas picked up a piece of sausage with his fingers, sniffing experimentally as the Dwarves filled their places. Legolas took a small nibble, and his eyes widened—his face flushed from his cheeks to his ears, and he grabbed for his wine. 

Bofur laughed, head thrown back, and Bombur grinned. 

“You like that, do you? I get them from the southlands. Hottest pepper known. When cooked incorrectly they simply set one’s mouth on fire, but when done correctly they are the one of the sweetest peppers known, and the fire simply heightens the experience.” He passed a bowl of flaky biscuits to Gimli, taking one for himself. “Here. Eat them with these. It will kill the fire the wine only spreads.” 

Legolas snatched up a biscuit and stuffed half of it into his mouth, distinctly unelvish in his manners, and seemingly as one the room honestly relaxed. Gimli patted Legolas on the back. “Sorry, Lad,” he said. “I didn’t realize you’d react so strongly.” 

Legolas shot Gimli a look that said he didn’t buy it for a minute, but he couldn’t argue with the results. 

“Try the boar ribs,” Bofur offered. “They’re cooked with honey and sweet preserves. Not spicy at all.” 

Glancing at Gimli, Legolas took a rib by a piece of protruding bone, and when Gimli mimed bringing it to his mouth, tore off a piece with his teeth. “Mmm,” he hummed. “This is very good.” 

“A favorite,” Bombur said. “Don’t be shy, eat your fill. We certainly will,” 

“And with my brother, you want to eat before he finishes it all,” Bofur cracked, but Bombur didn’t deny it, focusing instead on his plate. Slowly, Legolas began adding food to his own dish. Elvish fair was rarely served thus, and it was a bit odd to be eating communally. It did nothing to diminish the quality of the food, however, nor the drink that Bomfur kept flowing, and Legolas was soon tucking in with gusto to rival Gimli’s. 

“So,” Bofur said, tearing apart a roll. “Tell us everything.” 

Gimli looked up, elbows braced on the table, a turkey leg held in both of his hands. “Where should I start?”

Bofur shrugged. “No sense digging around the vein,” he said, and nodded to the Elf. Legolas looked up, still sucking on a rib bone. The sweet sauce had smeared over his left cheek and covered his fingers. The movement caused his hair to swing and a few strands stuck to the streak of sauce. Legolas pulled the bone from his mouth with a pop and frowned at the offensive strands. His eyes were bright, but not glassy, and there was a pink flush to his ears. Instead of addressing his hair, he began to suck the sauce from his fingers one by one. 

Gimli blinked. “Are you drunk?” 

Legolas grinned at him and said around his right bowfinger, “Dorwinion Wine.”

“Right,” Gimli said, and put the leg down, wiping his fingers on his napkin. “You know from ‘Adad that Lord Elrond called a council soon after we arrived, and that Legolas and I were tasked with accompanying Frodo to deliver the One Ring to Mount Doom.” He placed his napkin down and stood. “He said there should be a representative from all the free races of Middle Earth, and as father was too old.” He shrugged, and stood behind Legolas. “I’m not sure why this one was chosen, though I am very glad he was.” He smiled down at him, and Legolas tipped his head back to smile up at him, then he leveled Bofur and Bombur with a pragmatic look as Gimli deftly gathered up Legolas’s hair and wove it nimbly into a loose plait. 

“It was because Lord Elrond did not expect us to stay,” Legolas said. “He expected us,” he gestured between Gimli and himself, “to leave the quest once we had crossed the mountains, to return to our own lands.” Gimli snorted in derision, and Legolas rolled his eyes. “He expected much the same of Boromir and Aragorn, meleth, though even he could not foresee the events that led to the sundering.” He paused as Gimli tied off his hair, and looked over his shoulder at him. “Elrond is wise, but he is not all knowing, or he would not have kept insisting that there be no oaths to bind the fellowship.” 

Gimli sat again. “And yet oaths were made, and we stayed true to the quest. Ultimately were able to help Frodo by drawing the Dark Lord’s eye at a crucial moment.” 

Legolas snickered into his drink. “A diversion.” 

“Aye,” Gimli said. 

Bofur gestured between the two of them with a sausage. “And you two?” 

“Ah,” Gimli said. “That is a bit more complicated.” 

“We got on like birds and foxes,” Legolas said. “Every comment, every look, every act was fodder for the fire, and fair game besides. I’m afraid we quickly wore the patience of our company. It wasn’t until we discovered the fate of Kaz—Kahs—Kazhad-Dum (Bombur’s eyebrows shot up into his hair) that Gandalf lost his patience. It was the door, you see.” 

Bombur nodded slowly. “Kelebrimbur and Narvi,” he said. “Aye, we know.” 

“Gandalf reminded us that our people were friends once, and that we could be so again.” Gimli paused. “But we had to go through the long dark to understand.” He bowed his head. “The colony is gone, some ten years now. Balin was first, shot down by the Mirrormere. The goblins over-ran them. Uncle was eaten by the watcher in the water, and Ori we found still clutching his book. I have it with me, for the King and Dori.” 

“We nearly made it through untouched,” Legolas said. “But the goblins came, and with them the horror of flame and shadow.” 

“Durin’s Bane,” Bofur whispered, face pale. 

“Aye,” Legolas said. “The Balrog of Morgoth. Gandalf fell to it’s fire, and we fled to Lorien.” 

Gimli grinned, and rested his cheek on his fist. “Ahh, Lorien. There dwells the fairest of our Land. The White Lady.” He pressed his fingers over his chest where he gift to him was kept, and Legolas smiled fondly. “She welcomed me kindly, defended me to her kin and greeted me with Kudzhul like a native speaker.” He jerked his thumb over at Legolas. “Better than this leaf-brain, that’s for sure.” 

Legolas gasped at him, but without rancor, and blew a raspberry in his direction. Gimli grinned. “It’s true. Your Westron’s only better than your Kudzhul by a hair.” Legolas sniffed, and Gimli turned back to the others. 

“It was in Lorien that things changed. In our grief we were able to meet as equals, to put the differences of our cultures and the long enmity of our peoples behind us and forge a new bond for a new age.” 

Legolas nodded. “At the Battle of Helm’s Deep, Gimli showed his strength and courage where my own nerve failed, and we vowed to travel together should we live to see the end of darkness.”

“And at the Paths of the Dead, Legolas showed his mettle and was a rock for me when I would have quailed, proving that not even death can cast a shadow on us,” Gimli added, looking at Legolas. 

Legolas smiled at Gimli. “And on the eave of the final battle, when the White Gulls called to me and made me long for the sea, Gimli was there to help me keep my feet in this world, for while he lives I will not go West. 

Gimli took Legolas’s handin his own, and said, “And when the day was won, and we made good on our promises, I showed him the glory of the Glittering Caves, and he showed me the wonders of Fangorn Forest, and we knew, deep in our hearts, that ours were souls entwined to last beyond the veil of mortal death and into the next world beyond.” Legolas raised their joined hands and kissed Gimli’s fingers, and smiled when Gimli kissed his own in turn. 

Legolas raised his tankard to Bombur and Bofur. “We’re going to scandalize a lot of people,” he said, and drained the glass. 

“I’ll say,” Bofur said, faintly. 

*

In the end, after Gloin’s bluster and tears and bone-crushing hug, after the ringing had stopped in Legolas’s ears and Thranduil crawled back out of his wine cellar weeping over his little leaf, after the fraught meetings between the Mountain and the Wood for the Prince of the Greenwood had married the Third in line to the Throne of Erebor, after months of planning and dark looks and desperate nights in each others arms that still felt like they were in the middle of a war, Legolas wove Orange Blossoms into Gimli’s hair and Gimli secured the beads of their union in Legolas’s marriage braids and, together, they set out from the North towards their future. 

 

*in the language of flowers, Orange Blossoms mean eternal love, marriage, and fruitfulness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might actually come back to this one to show their homecomings, but I ran out of time to do so here. If I do, I will link it.


	5. Day 5: The Undying Lands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gimli and Legolas set sail

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of canonical character death. Sorry folks.

Day 5: The Grey Havens

_Gimli Gloin’s son is renowned, for he was one of the Nine Walkers that set out with the Ring; and he remained in the company of King Elessar throughout the War. He was named Elf-friend because of the great love that grew between him and Legolas, son of King Thranduil, and because of his reverence for the Lady Galadriel._

_After the fall of Sauron, Gimli brought south a part of the Dwarf-folk of Erebor, and he became Lord of the Glittering Caves. He and his people did great works in Gondor and Rohan. For Minas Tirith they forged gates of mithril and steel to replace those broken by the Witch-king. Legolas his friend also brought south Elves out of Greenwood, and they dwelt in Ithilien, and it became once again the fairest country in all the westlands._

_Here follows one of the last notes in the Red Book_

_We have heard tell that Legolas took Gimli Gloin’s son with him because of their great friendship, greater than any that has been between Elf and Dwarf. If this is true, then it is strange indeed: that a Dwarf should be willing to leave Middle-earth for any love, or that the Eldar should receive him, or that the Lords of the West should permit it. But it is said that Gimli went also out of desire to see again the beauty of Galadriel; and it may be that she, being mighty among the Eldar, obtained this grace for him. More cannot be said of this matter._

*

The Passing of a friend is always hard, and harder still for the fairest in this land who feel such grief so keenly. Gimli stroked a hand over his beard, long since grown snow-white; it was ornately woven—thin strands braded Elven-style and secured with a riot of crystal like ice among snow. He could feel every twist under his fingers, the facets of each stone of the worry work of his husband’s hands. Gimli had feared for his husband, his dearest Legolas, when Aragorn had breathed his last. 

They had come as quick as the wind to Minas Tirith at the call of the Queen, a warning that the King’s days grew frightful short. Arwen had been resplendent, strong even in her sorrow, for she knew she had not the march of forever. 

Legolas had faired little better; Aragorn was the first mortal friend he had formed, and though he missed the Hobbits, sailing West was not the same as death for an Elf. He had been pale, shaken like Gimli had not seen since that dark night at Helm’s Deep, when he approached Arwen to speak with her softly in her own tongue. She had smiled at him, eyes wet with tears unshed, and softly shook her head. Then, lowering her veil before her face, turned in vigil to her husband’s tomb. 

That had been three days ago, and already this was the fifth time Gimli had found Legolas thus, staring West, head cocked as if listening but not hearing a sound around him. He would not react to his name, or to the smell of fresh food, or even on one memorable occasion, a bucket of water. Legolas was usually affected by the gulls when they visited this city, but it had never been this strongly before. 

Now, Legolas sat on a bench, hand limp in his lap, and stared ever West with blank eyes. With creaking bones, Gimli sat next to Legolas, took his hand, and waited. 

At length, Legolas said softly, “How long this time?” 

Gimli sighed. “I’ve been here for less than an hour,” he said. “But I’ve been out for several before. I do not know for sure.” 

Legolas nodded. “It is getting stronger,” he said. “I fear I will not be able to resist for much longer.” 

Gimli felt his heart drop, though he hoped he gave no outward sign. Legolas had pledged they’d be together until death and beyond. He gave his _vow!_ The part of him that sounded still like Thorin Oakenshield, great Durin that he was, raved that this Legolas was just as his father, an oath-breaker revealed at last. The rest of him, the honest rest of him, knew that, even if Legolas did break his vow, Gimli would rather he sailed and live than stay and fade. 

“Aye,” he said at last, and was pleased that his voice didn’t shake. 

Legolas must have heard it anyway, for at last he turned to Gimli. “Do not look so,” he said. “I vowed to stay by your side, and stay I will. Faitheless is he—“

“Yes, yes!” GImli, snapped. “I know how it goes. But this is not a quest to defeat an ancient evil! This is your life, and I would not have you give that life for mine when you could live on, healed, with your own people.” 

Legolas, blast him, was smiling. “Silly Dwarf,” he said, and his eyes were clear and focused. “Don’t you know? You are my people.” He squeezed Gimli’s hand. “Come with me.” 

Gimli blinked at him. “What?”

“Come with me,” Legolas said. “I have been dreaming of the Lady. You will be welcome, I promise.” He looked out over the parapet once more. “It is my wish to ride West from here, to make for the Grey Havens and sail, at last.” He looked back. “But If you will not come with me, I will stay, for I would rather spend all of your time with you than another moment apart.” 

Gimli cupped Legolas’s cheek, still as it ever was the first time he had looked to Legolas with tender affections, and smiled as Legolas’s eyes fluttered. “I go where you go,” Gimli said, low and rough. “If that means we sail West, we sail. He sniffed. “And if you say the Lady has granted me welcome, then who am I to refuse her such an invitation?”

*

A fortnight after Aragorn was buried with his ancestors, Legolas and Gimli set out from the White City. They traveled first to Aglarond, where Gimli passed the Lordship of the great colony to his nephew, who had for years been ruling when Gimli would leave the caves. With the Lordship came the Crystal containing the three strands of the Lady Galadriel’s hair; set in mithril, the Crystal glinted in all the colors of beauty and grace, lit from within by the shining glory of those three strands.

With only his old traveling pack, Gimli left Aglarond for the last time, riding behind Legolas West. They did not stop in Ithilien, and when Gimli questioned, Legolas would only say, “My affairs there are settled. The West awaits.” 

They passed through the Valley of Imladris, long since emptied but still peaceful in it’s ruin. Time had not yet worn the architecture, though the trees had started to once more reclaim the land. They would be the last to settle in that Valley as it was in the days of Elrond. 

They passed through the Shire, and for brief span Pippin and Merry rode with them, both now old Hobbits with the hair on their heads and feet gone grey and white. They said their goodbyes at Western boarder of the Shire, for neither Pippin nor Merry would travel to the Western Shores again. 

They arrived at the Grey Havens at the height of spring. The port was empty, though like Imladris, had yet to see decay. In workshops there remained tools and supplies left for one small ship. With Gimli’s help, Legolas read the plans and with the patience and diligence of one in a trace, he began to build. Gimli helped when he could, forging the metalworks as Legolas shaped the hull, stitching sails while Legolas crafted the mast. The last part, however, Gimli could be no part of, and he spent a sleepless night in their room, staring up at the stars and saying a final fairwell to Middle Earth. 

The next morning, as dawn broke, Legolas arrived in their room, and led Gimli down to the ship. He looked exhausted, but joyus, and Gimli looked over the ship, no larger than a schooner, with a craftsman’s eye. It was solid, beyond solid, imbued with the grace of the Elves and the strength of the Dwarves: a boat built just for them. 

“Well?” Legolas asked. “Does she meet with your approval?” The words were teasing, but his eyes were serious: as if Legolas could ever disappoint Gimli. 

Gimli snorted. “I trusted you on that damned beastie for all those years, I can trust you on this contraption, I’m sure.” 

Legolas grinned, tongue between his teeth. He looked far younger than his years, and it made Gimli feel brighter. “You came to love Arod as I did. It does you no harm to admit it now, Meleth-nin.” 

“So you say,” Gimli grunted. “I’ll be the judge of what will and wont harm a dwarf, hmm?” 

“As you say,” Legolas said, laughing, and bowed, gesturing for Gimli to precede him onto the boat. Gimli did, planting his feel against the wooden deck and grimacing.

“Well,” he said, as Legolas jumped aboard and cast off. “It’s better than those Lorien cockleshells, that’s for sure.” 

Legolas’s laughter rang across the water. 

*

_It is not known how long the journey to the Grey Havens lasts. There is no way to mark the passing of time, and the Elves themselves barely notice the push and pull of those tides. Yet, when the mists cleared and Legolas saw land once more, Gimli’s beard had grown longer by several inches and he grew stiff when he was too long still._

_When they at last reached the land, they were met by a great host. At the fore were Thranduil and Auralia, Legolas’s father and mother, who embraced their son as a long lost lamb. Elrond was there, and Gandalf, now called Olorin (by his side were two small figures, the Hobbits, Frodo and Samwise, who still yet lived). Too, was the Lady Galadriel, who shined in the morning sun, and greeted Gimli son the Gloin, Lockbearer and Lord of Aglarond, in the tongue of his forefathers and bid him welcome to Aman._

_It is said that Gimli bowed low, responding in kind, and the sweet laughter of the Lady caught the attention of the Valar, who looked down on this day and smiled._


	6. Day 6: Hair Braiding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> everything ends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> major character death, peeps. i'm so sorry. don't like? feel free to skip this one.

Day 6: Hair Braiding

_”Legolas,” Gimli said, voice soft as soapstone. Legolas paused, fingers still deep in Gimli’s hair, four strands separated out. “You have braided my hair well for years, now, but it is time I taught you the proper braids.”_

*

Gimli’s hair was softer than it looked, downy white and still full, and it plaited easily in Legolas’s fingers. The braid was new – the most recent in a very long line of Dwarven braids, but Legolas never faltered, the plait coming straight and even. 

There, his Family braid, naming him of the Line of Durin, with a bead of Cobalt enamel to mark his relation to the crown. Here, the braid of his majority, and there the braid of his mastery. A Victory Braid with Seven strands behind his left ear, for his role in the Fellowship and the War of the Ring. A Naming Braid that called him Lockbearer, Champion of the Lady Galadriel and Elf Friend. The Ruling braid of Aglarond, bound with crystal from that same land. 

A Marriage braid, the only in Elven style, to match his Elven husband. 

With gentle patience, Legolas braided Gimli’s mustache, his husband’s only nod to Vanity. Once bound, he smoothed his fingers over the braids, as he had seen his Husband do time beyond count. He pressed a kiss to cool, still lips, and finally let his tears fall. 

*

_”Why now?” Legolas asked. “After all these years?”_

_Gimli sighed. “Because soon they will be needed, and I will not be one to do them.”_

_Legolas dropped his comb._

*

“Oh, my little leaf…” 

Legolas raised his head. His tears had long since dried, and his eyes felt raw, as they had in Erebor when he could not escape the smoke from Dwarven pipes. Thranduil stood in the doorway to the bedroom Legolas and Gimli had shared these past decades. 

“Ada…” Legolas said, his voice a crow’s cry to his father’s birdsong, and faster than thought, he was embraced, swaddled his father’s robes and the scent of juniper berries. Legolas’s heart wrenched, and for a moment, he thought the tears would come anew, but it appeared his tears were dry, and he pulled away. He sighed. “We are ready.” 

Thranduil raised his hand, cupping Legolas’s face. His rings were warm from his skin, and Legolas hand to close his eyes. 

“Then I will call them in,” Thranduil said, and though he spoke no louder, the door opened again. Auralia entered first, bowing low. Then the Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn, and entering last was Oloron with Elrond. One by one, they embraced Legolas, and took their place around Gimli’s bier; seven pall bearers for the only Dwarf in the Undying Lands. Legolas took his place in front, pausing only for a moment to smooth his love’s hair once more, and then the procession began. 

Down from their home they went, along the streets and through the center of town. Every doorway was open, and as they passed, the Elves of Aman paid their respects. 

So they passed from the town to the foothills of the mountain. 

*

_When Legolas had dried his tears, cradled to Gimli’s chest, Gimli had told him of his work; in the Mountains beyond their home he had carved for himself a tomb. It would be his final masterwork._

_“Remember where it is,” he said, low and fierce. “I must be laid to rest in stone.”_

_“I will remember,” Legolas said. “I swear to you, my love, I will remember.”_

*

The path led deep into the mountainside, and ended in a cavern lit by glowing moss. In the center of the room was a marble sarcophagus, and by it’s side stood a Dwarf. 

The procession halted, and Legolas could feel the awe of those around him as a distant thing. He met the eyes of this strange Dwarf, and found he was no stranger at all. 

“Mahal,” Legolas breathed, and the Dwarf qwirked a smile. 

“So my children call me,” he said in a voice like the Mountains themselves. His eyes twinkled like forge fires, and Legolas ached for Gimli’s presence. But Gimli was cold behind him, and could offer no comfort. 

Mahal cocked his head and stepped forward. He was far larger than any Dwarf, taller than the Elves themselves, and he moved beyond measure. “Child of Illuvitar,” he said, gentle as white sand. “Beloved of a favored son, I grieve with you.” He placed his hand on Legolas’s shoulder. Legolas shuddered and the tears came; it was several minutes before he would answer to anyone. 

Thranduil dried his eyes, and the bearers carried Gimli to the stone. Legolas stared down at his love, nearly unrecognizable in his stillness but still so very much him, until Mahal—for he was Mahal and not Aulë with such Dwarven custom—closed the lid of the sarcophagus with a final resounding boom. 

“From stone he was made, and so to stone he returns,” Mahal said, and with a sound like a ringing anvil, he was gone. Only then did Legolas approach the marble, running his hand over the runes carved there. 

“Here lies Gimli, Lord of Aglarond, Husband of Legolas of Ithilien,” Oloron read. 

“Please,” Legolas said. “Let me—” his voice cracked and he stopped. Oloron nodded and bowed, and ushered the others from the cave, guiding Thranduil with a hand on his arm when he would have protested. 

At last alone, Legolas sunk against the stone, crawling onto the coffer and pressing his face to the cool stone. “Oh, my love,” he said, “I did not know it would hurt this much. You have always comforted me before. I would that you comfort me now.” There was no answer but the silence. 

Legolas bit back a sob. “You said before that I could find you if I had your name. I have your name now, my love, and I would find you,” and with narry a breath of sound, he breathed Gimli’s secret name into the stone, where it mingled with his tears. 

*

_When the sun had nearly set, Oloron could hold Thranduil back no longer, and he stormed back into the tomb to collect his son, to ease his suffering and begin his healing. His anguished cry brought the others at a run._

_They found Thranduil on his knees before the monument, weeping openly into his hands. Lying on the tomb was Legolas, his face pressed to the stone and his hand to Gimli’s name. His chest moved with breath, and his eyes were open, but they were empty, and would remain as such, for not even the healing of Aman could save an elf whose fëa had left his body._


	7. Day 7: AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sochi Olympics AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes at the end

Day 7: AU

Sochi Olympic AU. Why? Why not?

Raised voices were not uncommon at any Olympic Village, and certainly not uncommon at this Olympic village. The who affair so far had been a riot of frustrated athletes and trainers, screaming in their native tongue. Keahi had learned several new swears in at least five different languages only in the last few days. As Keahi and his team entered their hotel, he heard the melodic lilting of Finnish as it was forced through clenched teeth. Keahi nudged Patrick, their second string goalie, and indicated that he was going to watch the fireworks. 

Sure enough, there was one of the members of the Finnish cross country ski team, impossibly long of limb and whipcord thing. He had his face buried in his hands. The woman behind the counter remained impassive. 

“I am trying to tell you,” The man began in accented English. Keahi froze: there was something about that accent that tugged at something low in Keahi’s gut. “That when I went to the slopes this morning, _that_ was my room, and now I come back and my lock has been changed.”

Keahi winced. The woman just blinked slowly. “Are you sure it’s the same room?” 

“It’s been my room for a week!” he cried, and ran his hands through his dark hair, pulling it back from his face. Keahi saw him clearly for the first time—he was beautiful. Pale eyes, sharp cheekbones, and a long, thin nose. He _should_ looked stretched, but somehow it suited him. Keahi blinked away a sudden sense of déjà vu and looked again. 

The man wasn’t Keahi’s usual type. Keahi generally favored brawnier men who could handle themselves in things got a bit rough. His last fling had been a personal trainer who was training for the strongman circuit. Keahi had a type.

Yet—this man was an athlete. He must be stronger than he looked, and judging by those lycra pants, it was all leg and ass. _Sweet merciful crap, that ass._

Keahi realized he was staring at the ass of a man who was locked out of his room (in a style that reeked of both _The Twilight Zone_ and the worst kind of Cold War propaganda), and felt his face heat with shame. 

Nothing for it now. He had to help. 

With a deep sigh at his own foolishness, Keahi walked over to the desk. 

“Manager will be back tomorrow.” 

The skier seemed to slump, and Keahi cleared his throat. Those pale eyes focused on him and widened in surprise. Keahi restrained a different type of sigh. He knew that look—Keahi didn’t look like many of the athletes at the Winter Olympics; The US didn’t usually send Hawaiian hockey players, let alone Canadians, and yet here Keahi was, son of a Hawaiian mother and Scots-Canadian father, playing defense for the Candian Men’s Olympic Hockey Team. 

“Sorry to interrupt,” Keahi said. “But I couldn’t help overhear.” 

“No, no,” The skier said, it’s alright.” The staring was starting to get a little awkward, but Keahi found that he didn’t really mind. 

“Look,” Keahi said. "This might take a while. Do you want to stash your things in my room for a while? We could get some coffee or something while we wait.” 

“We?” The skier said, a bit faint, but then he grinned and his whole face lit. “Yes. We. Thank you.” 

“Great!” Keahi said, and grabbed the handle of the skier’s suitcase. He lifted it easily, though it was heavy enough that the skier’s eyebrows raised, impressed. “It’s right down this way, if you want to call somebody about this.” 

“Thank you,” the skier said, and pulled out his cell phone. Keahi led the way to his room, ignoring Doug and Brett as they whistled at him. The skier spoke into the phone in rapid-fire Finnish. 

Once Keahi had let them into his room, the skier hung up his phone. “My trainer is going to come yell for a while. Maybe he can make some headway.” The skier sat heavily on the bed. “Hopefully, this will be fixed soon.” 

“No worries,” Keahi said. “Oh, I’m Keahi, by the way.” 

“Keahi,” the skier said. “That’s an interesting name.” 

“It’s Hawaiian,” Keahi said. “Means ‘fire.’ My mom picked it, said if I was going to live in Canada, I should have something from her home too.” 

The skier smiled. “That’s a good reason,” he said. “My name is Lundy.” He shrugged. “It means ‘grove.’ If my father had a reason for choosing this name, he never told me.” 

Keahi grinned. “Well met, Lundy.” 

Lundy blinked at him, then smiled that broad smile again. “Well met, Keahi.” 

Three hours passed like nothing as Keahi and Lundy talked of their lives. Keahi told Lundy about visiting his mother’s family in Hawaii (about how the stares he got there were different then the stares he got at home, and while he hated both, at least he was with family that understood, about learning to surf, about the power and beauty of the lava fields). He spoke most, however, about the caves on the Big Island. 

Lundy had smiled at the wistfulness in Keahi’s voice, and told of his father’s house, a sprawling estate deep in the boreal forests of Finland, and the many hours he had spent walking the paths. 

When the knock came at the door, Keahi jumped, nearly falling from his chair. He covered by standing and wondered just when he had moved to the edge of his seat. As he answered the door, he notices Lundy shifting back, a faint flush across the bridge of his nose. 

Keahi opened the door to Lundy’s trainer; he was another tall, thin man, pale where Lundy was dark, though this man had the greyed cheeks of one with a permanent five o’clock shadow. He looked down at Keahi (it wasn’t hard. Keahi was barely 5’7”, but this dick didn’t have to be so snotty about it), and said, “I look for Lundy.” 

Lundy stood, coming up behind Keahi, and placed his hand on Keahi’s shoulder. It was warm and strong and Keahi had a strong desire to fell that hand elsewhere, but more it felt _right_ to have this man flank him and offer him comfort. It was surprising enough that Keahi didn’t leave right away, and when he finally tried to, Lundy tightened his hand. 

“Yes, Haldir?” Lundy asked, and Haldir frowned but began speaking in rapid-fire Finnish. Keahi looked back to watch Lundy’s face; it stiffened. After a long moment, Lundy exhaled forcefully and spat out something that made this Haldir frown in disappointment. 

“They are insisting I never had a room,” Lundy said. “And are refusing to compromise.” 

Keahi looked between them. “Then you will stay here,” he said. Both of them stopped and looked at him, Lundy with a soft smile and Haldir with obvious surprise. “I drew the straw for the single this time around. I’ve even got a free bed.” He gestured to the far side of the room where there was indeed a bed covered with his pads. 

“Thank you, Keahi,” Lundy said. “That is very kind.” 

“Are you sure—” Haldir began. 

“Yes,” “Lundy said. “I will see you on the slopes tomorrow, yes?”

“…of course,” Haldir said, and after nodded at both of them, left. Keahi shut the door.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Lundy said, quietly. 

“I know,” Keahi said, shrugging. “But I could. I wanted to.” This time he sat on the bed. “I know I haven’t known you long, but already it feels as if I have known you forever,” He confessed. “I consider you a friend, and friends have each other’s backs.” 

“These past few days have been hard,” Lundy admitted. “The past few hours could have been worse. However, they have been wonderful and that is because of you. I also feel as if this isn’t our first meeting.” He smiled, awkward yet honest, and quickly sat on the bed. “And I find that you comfort me, Keahi. My friend.”

Lundy’s eyes were very big this close, and grey like a storming sea. Before he could think of it, Keahi cupped Lundy’s face, his thumb large and dark and rough against Lundy’s cheek. Lundy cupped Keahi’s hand in his own, and Keahi slowly, wonderingly, said, “You comfort me, as well.” 

Lundy made a sound, a desperate whimper deep in his throat, and pulled Keahi in for a kiss—

\--a desperate kiss in dappled sunlight—

\--in a Russain hotel room—

\--pressed against soft moss—

\--pressed back against his bed, and Keahi gasped, cupping the back of Lundy’s head, feeding the growing storm of passion in him into the kiss, for he was finally where be belonged, in the arms of his beloved One—

Keahi pulled away with a gasp, mind swirling with memories that couldn’t be his, of a life of stone and war and kings and kingdoms, of an evil ring and quests for dragons, and a kingdom of his own made of purest crystal, and a an Elven lover that he followed across a mystic sea. He blinked, and his eyes focused on the face before him. Lundy’s eyes were near-black with desire and his skin was flushed pink to the points of his ears; were they pointed before? He didn’t think so, but they looked right, even if they were still too round for a proper Elf. But then again, Keahi wasn’t a proper Dwarf, not anymore. Gently, he reached out and traced his finger over the edge of his love’s ear, as he had so many times before. “Legolas,” he said, naming at last. 

Lundy’s eyes widened, and Keahi saw the awakening in his face. “Meleth-nin,” he breathed. “Gimli?”

“…Aye,” Gimli said. Or Keahi. Keahi was his name now. Gimli was his name then, and while Gimli was used to wearing names like hats, Keahi had only ever had the one. More memories returned, some of his life as a Dwarf and then others of lives lived in the race of Man, only to fade like some waking dream, and the more Keahi realized they were one in the same. Keahi was Gimli was Keahi; it did not matter what name he used. What mattered more what that he was staring at his One love, his Lover and Husband, and not kissing him like he could be. “Ghivashel,” he whispered. “My treasure,” and Legolas was back in his arms, covering his face with kisses and whispering blessings in the musical tongue of the Elves, unheard for so many centuries. 

“I found you,” Legolas said at last, fiercely. “I said I would, and I did.” 

“I never doubted you,” Gimli said.

*

_Later that night, exhausted and glowing and lying in their bed, Legolas tried to put their marriage braids back into Gimli’s hair. “It’s too short,” he grumbled, but his fingers kept combing anyway._

_“I’ll grow it out,” Gimli said, calm as anything. “You’ll like it. In the summer, I get red highlights.”_

_“Hmm,” Legolas hummed, and Gimli laughed. His husband’s preference for red hair had always been a source of amusement._

_“I’m going to Hawaii after this,” Gimli said. “I want you to come with me.”_

_Legolas grinned. “I will go with you if you come to Finland with me after to see my father’s forests.”_

_Gimli grinned up into the darkness. “Where you go, I will follow.” He could feel Legolas’s joy beside him._

_“To the ends of the Earth and beyond,” Legolas said. “Always.”_

_In the morning, Keahi and Lundy would rise and compete for their gold. Two weeks later they would be on a place to Maui. They marry before they leave for Finland. Their families both say it happens too soon, but they know the truth. They’ve been waiting long enough._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that was kind of a cheat, reincarnation Sochi Olympics AU. Still. HAPPY ENDING! YAY!
> 
> Thank you everyone for reading! HAPPY GIGOLAS WEEK EVERYONE!


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